Authors: Chris Simms
'That officer in earlier. Was he going on about gay sex?'
Jon turned around. The detective who'd spoken was leaning back in his chair, gut straining against the buttons of his shirt. Several other men were looking over with smirks on their faces.
'What if he was?' Jon answered.
'What is he then? Some sort of shirt lifter himself ?' He glanced at his mates, finding approval in their eyes.
Jon felt a surge of anger. The bunch of cowardly pricks had suddenly found the courage to start on Rick. He stepped closer to the officer. 'Why, you've got a problem with that, you fat fuck?'
He kept eye contact until the other man looked away. 'No, I didn't think so.' He walked out of the room.
A short while later he pushed his front door open. A delicious aroma greeted him as he stepped inside. Voices in the front room. Alice's and his mother's. Punch looked tentatively round the corner then gave a snort of delight and bounded towards him. Jon crouched down and reached both hands round his dog's head to rub behind its ears. Then he straightened up and walked into the front room. Alice was on the sofa with Holly at her breast, folds of a baggy purple jumper half covering the feeding baby.
He looked across to his mum who was perched on the edge of an armchair. 'I've been waiting to cuddle her for twenty minutes. Even you never fed this long.'
He smiled at the sight of her. She measured five-foot-two at the most and people always had trouble accepting that she had produced someone of Jon's size. Despite being in her mid- sixties, she was sprightly and trim with bright eyes and surprisingly smooth skin. Only her hair belied her years; the white strands that had started appearing a few years ago were now gathering in number, creating a silver sheen over the russet tones below.
'Mary's brought us round a lamb casserole,' Alice said, looking up with a tired expression.
'Oh, it's nothing.' His mum waved a hand, eyes still on Holly.
'Is she finished yet?'
Alice directed her gaze at the opposite wall for a second. 'I think so.'
How the hell can you know? Jon thought, baffled by the mysteries of motherhood.
Mary immediately sprang out of her seat and almost yanked Holly off Alice's breast. 'Look at you, you gorgeous little thing,' she cooed, expertly flipping the baby forwards and burping her with miraculous speed. She then positioned Holly on her shoulder. 'Don't they smell so lovely at this age?' she murmured, planting a kiss on the back of Holly's neck between each word.
Jon felt pressure against his legs and looked down to see
Punch eyeing him hopefully.
'Will you take that silly dog of yours out? He's been pacing around like a prisoner,' Alice said.
Jon glanced down at his wife. Silly dog of yours? A few weeks ago, he was our big baby. 'OK, I'll pop out with him now if that's all right.'
'Yeah.' Alice's eyes didn't go anywhere near the animal.
Jon looked out the window. The day was fading fast. It didn't seem like yesterday when it was light until ten o'clock at night.
'What's Dad up to?' he asked, loosening his tie.
Mary gave a theatrical scowl. 'There was some rugby match on the box. Who are they, Salford Red Socks or something?' Jon grinned. He was certain his mum purposely got the name of the rugby club wrong – after all, her husband had played for them in the days before everything turned professional.
It amused him how the sport was a source of constant ribbing between him and his father. His dad had played Rugby League, a version of the game made popular by the men who'd laboured in the region's mines, mills and docks.
But Jon had won a place at the local grammar school and ended up playing the game's other code – Rugby Union. More popular down south, the version was associated with England's posh schools. His dad would never let him forget it, continually making jokes about the southern softies who only played Union because they couldn't take the knocks that went with League. Jon often suspected the reasons why he played with such determined ferocity on the rugby pitch was to disprove his father's jibes. It took until his mid-twenties before he realised that had probably been his dad's plan all along.
He got changed into his running gear and popped his head back into the front room. 'Mum, you staying for some food?'
'No, your father will be expecting his. I'll get off in a minute.'
'Let him cook his own.'
She gave him a look. 'Your father couldn't boil a bloody egg.' He could if you ever let him in your kitchen, Jon thought, giving her a kiss goodbye.
A few minutes later he reached the playing fields of Heaton school where he let the dog off the lead, watching as he raced off into the dusk, following the scent of something. Probably rabbits that had colonised the edge of the golf course.
Jon stuck to the perimeter of the playing fields, using the light from the streetlamps that had just flickered into life. As he made his way round he was aware of the occasional ragged form flittering in the air above his head. Bats. They swooped and darted in pursuit of the flying insects attracted by the streetlights' glow.
When Jon reached the edge of the golf course Punch reappeared out of the gloom ahead, tongue hanging from his mouth. They completed their normal run and were home half an hour later.
After he'd showered and eaten, Jon sat next to Alice on the sofa. The telly was on low but both of them seemed to spend more time gazing at Holly as she lay on the brightly coloured floor mat. Jon found it amazing how such a tiny thing could exert such a powerful pull on their eyes. Gravity itself had shifted and the centre of the universe was now in the middle of their front room.
'I can't believe what's happening over there.'
Jon looked at his wife, realising that something on the telly had attracted her attention. He glanced at the screen where a government minister of some description was denouncing the barbaric acts being committed by terrorists in Iraq.
'They're decapitating hostages. Why?'
Jon tipped his head back against the sofa and sighed. How to explain the motivation behind an act like that?
'What sort of people are they?'
He rubbed at his temples, not wanting to get into it. 'I'm not making excuses, but not every Iraqi believes they're being liberated, Alice. Those terrorists are freedom fighters in many Iraqis' minds. We've invaded their country don't forget.'
Alice shifted to look at him. 'That's what I don't understand. They said the Iraqis would welcome our troops by throwing flowers into the path of their tanks. They said we'd win their hearts and minds through our civilised approach. What's civilised about those shock and awe tactics? Firing thousands of missiles into a crowded city in just two nights.'
He could hear the tension rising in her voice as she went on.
'There was a photo, Jon. An Iraqi boy being carried into a hospital by his dad. The top of his head was missing. It was just a baby for Christ's sake.' She waved a hand at the TV. 'If we're killing their babies how will that make them feel?'
Grainy footage of men with faces covered behind red- checked scarves now filled the screen.
'They're going to execute another hostage tomorrow if our troops don't withdraw. How can human beings be so cruel to each other?'
Seeing the tears in her eyes, Jon reached for the remote and switched channels. 'Ali, don't watch if it upsets you so much.'
'What, and pretend it's not happening? That's not any sort of answer.'
'I didn't mean that. Just, I don't know. Try not to dwell on it, that's all.'
She wiped the tears away. 'I suppose you're right. It's just so bloody tragic.'
Jon leaned his forehead against her temple. 'You're tired, babe. Why don't you get some sleep? I'll do the next feed.'
'You sure?' She glanced at Holly who was still fast asleep. 'It'll probably be around midnight.'
'Yeah, no problem. I'll see you later.'
Alice slid off the sofa and crawled over to the baby, then lowered her head and kissed her forehead. She stood up and stepped towards the door.
'Where's mine?' asked Jon, looking up at her expectantly.
'There was a time when you'd never go to bed without kissing me first.'
'Oh, sorry. Forgot about you,' she replied, bending forward. As their lips touched, he thought how he, too, had slipped down in the pecking order of her affection. As she straightened up his eyes skimmed over her. The sleepless nights were beginning to show on her face. Nothing too dramatic, more just a subtle loss of her previous healthy glow. It seemed to have affected her hair too, drying it out and robbing it of its lustre.
'Hey, have you booked that appointment at Melvyn's salon?' Alice's hand went to her fringe and she brushed it back from her eyes. 'Why, do I look like I've been out scaring crows?' He smiled. 'Course not. It would be nice, that's all. Besides, you haven't seen that lot since Holly was born.'
'I don't know. I still feel all fat.'
He watched as her hand now went to her stomach, fingers probing through the baggy jumper at the fold of flesh pregnancy had left her with. 'Come off it Ali, you look fine. That little bit of weight will soon disappear, especially with breastfeeding. I think you should book an appointment. My treat don't forget.'
'What about Holly?'
'Take her with you. Jesus, they'll love it.'
Her smile wasn't natural. 'OK, I'll think about it.'
Once she'd gone Punch crept into the room, cautiously skirting the baby and settling down in the corner where he could look at Jon, who flicked through the channels, stopping when he saw
An American Werewolf in London
starting on Channel Five.
'Hey Punch, this is a class film,' he said, crossing his legs. He watched the opening credits. Shot after shot of bleak and forbidding moors, their upper slopes shrouded in low cloud. His mind went to what had recently happened on Saddleworth Moor and the film took on a new poignancy.
The two young American backpackers clambered from the rear of the sheep truck and made their way into the isolated village, experiencing a frosty reception from the flat cap-wearing locals in the pub called The Slaughtered Lamb.
'Typical bloody Yorkshiremen,' muttered Jon, wondering exactly where the film had been shot.
Unwelcome in the village, the Americans headed back out across the moor. When the bloodcurdling howl pierced the darkness, Punch's ears pricked up and he looked around.
'It's only the telly, boy,' Jon chuckled, realising his eyelids were beginning to feel heavy.
The beast attacked seconds later, tearing one tourist to shreds and slashing the cheek of the other before the locals gunned it down. The survivor then awoke in a London hospital, but it wasn't long before he started dreaming of forests and racing through the trees in pursuit of deer.
As Jon continued to watch he could feel sleep creeping up on him also. He sat upright, determined not to nod off before Jenny Agutter's shower scene with Van Morrison singing that it was a marvellous night for a moon dance in the background.
Moments later the scent of pine began filling the air around him and he looked up at the dense canopy of branches above his own head. Dots of sunlight shone down, speckling the carpet of pine needles at his feet. He had a rucksack on his back and was walking fast, a sense of urgency spurring him on. Each footstep created a soft crackle in the silent wood. He wondered why he was hurrying when a branch snapped somewhere off to his side.
'Oh no,' he groaned, breaking into a jog, guessing what the dream would lead to.
He weaved between the tree trunks, rough bark catching on his clothes as a sickening fear rose in his throat. A keening cry suddenly cut through the forest. It was a desolate and terrible sound, the noise a creature makes when it needs food.
The terror that now flooded him was clammy and cold. It was a terror that came from the knowledge that what hunted him could not be reasoned with. It possessed no compassion because it was not human. It was a primeval force, merciless in its savagery.
Jon blundered onwards, now able to hear his pursuer as it raced through the trees behind. As hard as he tried, Jon couldn't break into a sprint. His legs were heavy and sluggish, despite the adrenaline coursing through him. The creature was closing in, its call getting louder and more insistent.
Desperately Jon tried to drag himself out of the dream, his sweaty back tingling with the anticipation of the claws that he knew were about to puncture his flesh. In the nick of time his eyes snapped open and he found himself staring at the television. The film had ended but the shrill noise still filled the room. He looked down and saw Holly wriggling on her mat, face red and mouth open. Punch was lying next to her, gently licking the top of her head, trying to offer some comfort.
Disoriented, Jon slowly stood. 'It's OK,' he said to both of them. He bent down and picked Holly up before stumbling into the kitchen to get a bottle.
Six
It was late by the time Peterson got to the car park at Daisy Nook. To his annoyance, he'd fallen asleep in front of the box, waking up well past midnight, an erection jutting out from his jeans. Time to get that sorted he decided, reaching for his car keys.
As his headlights illuminated the parking area, Peterson frowned. It was tiny, or perhaps intimate was a better word. He glanced at the dashboard clock. Shit, the only ones likely to be out this late on a weekday night were people like him – the desperate, who didn't need to bother getting up the next day for work. And the sad fact was, all too often those ones weren't that bothered about personal hygiene either. What had the guy on the forum said? Ten o'clock onwards, Peterson thought.
He swung his car round and reversed into a corner, headlights facing outwards so he could signal any arrivals. Turning his lights off, he left the engine idling and reclined his seat slightly, leaning the back of his skull against the headrest. Darkness was all around, thick and heavy, pressing in on the windows. He liked the dark, the way it aroused people's more basic desires. How many acts that would cause outrage if performed during the day, safely took place under the cover of night?